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Quinn 
Songs  of  Innisfail 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


And  Memory  at  evening  tide 
Shall  wing  her  flight  o'er  oceans  wide 
To  treasured  scenes  along  thy  shore 
Oh!  lonely,  lovely  Island  More. 

SEE  PAGE  12 


SONGS    OF 
INNISFAIL 

By    FRANCIS    QUINN 


OAKLAND 

CELTIC  PUBLISHING  SOCIETY 
1914 


COPYRIGHTED  1914 
By  FRANCIS  QUINN 


V 


OAKLAND 

J.  W.  McCOMBS,  PRINTER 
613  TENTH  STREET 


Reader,  if  you  only  knew 
How  strong  my  love — how  strongly 

true 

My  love  for  native  land — my  hate 
For  those  who  caused  her  piteous 

fate, 
You  might  forgive  the  imperfect 

song 
I  timidly  address  to  you. 

F.  Q. 


CONTENTS 


Oh  !  See  You  that  Isle  ? 

Morning  Walk  in  Ireland. 

Song. 

Nora's  Letter. 

The  Answer 

The  Exile's  Toast. 

The  Daisy. 

My  Irish  Girl. 

Island  More. 

My  Little  Irish  Mary. 

Sing  Me  a  Song. 

Katie  Alanna. 

Evening  in  Fruitvale. 

Music. 

The  Star  of  Faith. 


O   SEE   YOU   THAT   ISLE. 

O  see  you  that  Isle !  in  the  ocean  uplifted, 
Where  green  grows  the  shamrock  and  roses 

blush  red, 
Whose  daughters  are  fair  and    whose    sons 

rarely  gifted, 
Where  glory  stands  guard  o'er    the    patriot 

dead. 

O  see  you  that  Isle !  with  its  verdure-clad 
mountains, 

Bathed  in  the  light  of  the  evening's  rich  glow ; 

O  see  you  the  flash  of  its  silver-hued  foun 
tains, 

As  they  leap  from  the  hills  to  the  valleys  be 
low. 

O  see  you  the  waves  of  the  broad  Shannon 

rolling 

Along  to  the  sea-beach  by  lone  Mullaghamore, 
Or  hear  you  the  sound  of  the  vesper  bell  tolling 
From  the  old  church  at  home  in  loved  Cur- 

raghadore. 

O  see  you  that  Isle!  where  silently  rest 
Brave  Emmet  and  Orr  and  the  gallant  Shawn 

Roe, 

Who  reaped  but  a  grave  on  its  emerald  breast, 
And  died  for  their  country  defying  the  foe. 

O  see  you  that  Isle !  'tis  the  home  of  my  child 
hood, 

Where  happy  I  roamed  through  the  long  sum 
mer  day, 

Bird-nesting  at  will  in  the  deep  tangled  wild- 
wood 

That  shelters  the  slopes  of  clear  Carlingford 
bay. 


O  see  you  that  Isle !  'tis  the  land  where  Wolfe 

Tone 

Arose  in  the  noon  of  his  manhood  to  foil 
The  brutal  invader  who  claimed  as  his  own 
The  wealth  of  its  children,  their  lives,  and  their 

soil. 


O  see  you  that  Isle!  'tis  the  land  where  Tom 

Moore 
Gave  the  world  a  bright  song-burst  that  never 

shall  fail. 
The  soul  throbs  of  Ireland  which  shall  ever 

endure 
In  the  hearts  and  the  homes  of  the  patriot 

Gael. 


O  see  you  that  Isle !  'tis  the  land  of  my  fathers, 
The  land  of  St.  Patrick  and  home  of  the  brave, 
Through  long  years  of  absence  there  memory 

gathers, 
For  my  heart  lies  with  Erin  far  over  the  wave. 


A    MORNING    WALK    IN    IRELAND. 


O  green  were  the  fields, 
As  I  roamed  on  my  way, 

One  bright  Sunday  morn 
In  the  sweet  month  of  May. 

And  rich  were  the  hills, 

And  fair  to  behold, 
In  their  mantles  of  green, 

And  their  blossoms  of  gold. 

Loud  sang  the  sweet  linnet, 
The  blackbird,  the  thrush, 

And  the  dark-breasted  starling, 
From  many  a  bush, 

And  blithe  as  love's  lyrics 
From  the  tall  waving  corn, 

Rose  the  song  of  the  lark, 
To  the  ear  of  the  morn, 


Low  murmured  the  streams, 
As  they  danced  in  their  pride, 

Down  lofty  Slieve  Grittle 
And  Quoila's  green  side, 

To  haunts  where  the  cowslip, 

And  violet  repose, 
In  the  nooks  and  the  dells, 

Where  the  Glasswater  flows. 


From  the  hills  in  the  distance, 
The  balmy  south  breeze, 

Brought  a  shower  that  sparkled, 
On  the  grass,  and  the  trees, 


And  arrayed  the  fair  breast 

Of  a  rose  on  its  stem, 
With  diamonds  as  rare 

As  an  Orient  gem. 

From  a  rainbow  that  arched, 
And  glowed  in  the  skies, 

Methought  I  saw  "Freedom" 
Triumphant  arise, 

And  smile  her  fair  smile, 

And  stretch  forth  her  brave  hand, 
O'er  the  mountains  and  glens 

Of  my  own  native  land. 

Enraptured  I  gazed 

On  each  wide  spreading  vale, 
Each  clear  flashing  fountain, 

And  brier  bud  pale. 

"O !  Ireland,"  I  cried, 

As  I  wandered  along. 
"Thou  sweet  land  of  beauty, 

Of  love,  and  of  song, 

"Here  surely  to  thee 

And  thy  children  was  given, 
One  bright  glimpse  of  Freedom, 
One  foretaste  of  Heaven." 


SONG. 

AIR — "The  Maids  of  Galway" 

I  met  my  love  one  lovely  morn 

In  the  spring-time  of  the  year, 
When  blossoms  white  bedecked  the  thorn, 

And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  clear. 
I  gazed  upon  her  winsome  face, 
Then  'round  my  heart,  I  ween, 
I  felt  the  spell  of  the  magic  grace 
Of  lovely  sweet  Kathleen. 

I  loved  her  then,  I  love  her  now, 

She  is  pure  as  pure  can  be, 
Och !  I  would  give  the  wide,  wide  world 
To  know  that  she  loves  me. 

Her  face  is  fair  as  summer  skies, 

She  is  my  fond  heart's  choice, 
In  dreams  I  see  her  dreamy  eyes, 

And  hear  her  laughing  voice. 
There's  not  a  bud  or  flower  that  flakes 

The  hills  and  meadows  green, 
Nor  yet  a  wandering  stream  but  makes 
Me  think  of  my  Kathleen. 
I  think  of  her,  I  dream  of  her, 

I  love  her  tenderly, 

And  I  would  give  the  wide,  wide  world 
To  know  that  she  loves  me. 

The  rose  may  cease  to  bud  and  blow, 

And  lilies  die  forever, 
And  friends  may  come  and  friends  may  go, 

But  forget  her  I  shall  never. 
Love-ties  around  my  heart  are  spun 

Too  strong  to  break,  I  ween; 
They  will  not,  cannot,  be  undone, 
My  soul  shall  guard  Kathleen. 
For  I  love  her,  and  I'll  love  her 
Through  all  the  years  to  be, 
But  I  would  give  the  wide,  wide  world 
To  know  that  she  loves  me! 


NORA'S  LETTER. 

To  Terence  in  America : 

"Do  you  ever  think  of  me, 

My  Terence  gal  machree? 
When  the  rosy  dawn  is  breaking, 
And  the  slumbering  world  is  waking, 
And  the  sparkling  dew  is  shaking, 
On  rosebud,  leaf  and  tree. 

"Do  you  ever  sigh  for  me, 

Ma  bouchal  bawn  machree? 
When  the  woodlands  green  are  ringing, 
With  the  sounds  of  music  springing, 
From  the  wild  birds  sweetly  singing, 
Their  songs  of  melody. 

"Do  you  ever  long  for  me, 

My  Terence  star  machree? 
When  the  Autumn  winds  are  sighing, 
And  the  flowers  are  dead  and  dying, 
And  the  fleecy  clouds  are  flying 
Over  hill,  and  vale,  and  lea. 

"Do  you  ever  dream  of  me 

Mavourneen  gra  machree? 
In  that  sunny  golden  land 
Where  all  they  say  is  grand, 
Far  away  from  Erin's  strand, 
Far  away  from  home  and  me. 

"Do  you  ever  think  of  me, 

And  how  lonely  I  must  be? 

By  the  glowing  turf-fire  bright, 

In  the  gloaming's  mellow  light, 

Thru  the  long,  long  winter's  night, 

As  I  sit  and  think  of  thee? 

NORA. 


FROM  TERENCE  TO   NORA. 

"I  think  of  thee  in  the  morning, 

When  the  dew  is  on  the  flowers, 
When  Nature  spreads  her  mantle  green, 
O'er  fair  Dromara's  bowers. 

"I  think  of  thee  at  the  noontide, 

Beside  the  hawthorn  bush, 
Where  we  often  sat  and  listened 
To  the  warbling  of  the  thrush. 

"I  think  of  thee  in  the  gloaming, 

With  sighs  of  fond  regret, 
Through  all  my  years  of  roaming, 
I  never  can  forget. 

"I  think  of  thee  at  night,  love, 

When  the  drowsy  world  is  still. 
In  dreams  I  walk  with  thee,  love, 
By  Creeva's  lonely  hill. 

"I  think  of  fond  days  vanished, 

The  days  of  life's  young  spring, 

And  memory's  thoughts  still  ponder 

O'er  the  songs  we  used  to  sing. 

"I  think  of  thee,  dear  Nora, 

Here  in  an  alien  land; 
I  miss  the  glance  of  your  loving  eye, 
And  the  clasp  of  your  gentle  hand. 

"I  long  for  the  day,  and  the  hour, 
When  blessed  by  heaven  above, 
I  will  wander  back  to  the  dear  old  land, 
To  my  home,  and  the  girl  I  love. 


THE  EXILE'S  TOAST. 

An  echo  of  the  Boer  War. 

"A  toast !  a  toast !"  the  exiles  cried, 
'Neath  the  cabin's  swinging  light, 

As  the  round  moon  shone  o'er  the  waters  wide, 
In  the  calm  of  an  Autumn  night. 

"A  toast  to  the  land  that  bore  us, 
A  health  to  the  brave  Oom  Paul, 

The  green  flag  floating  o'er  us, 

On  the  veldts  of  the  far  Transvaal." 

With  jest  and  song  these  exiles  brave, 

The  red  wine  freely  quaffed, 
As  the  good  ship  "Seagull"  ploughed  the  wave 

With  a  fresh'ning  breeze  abaft. 

'Til  a  youth  stood  up  with  brimming  cup, 

His  dark  eyes  flashing  bright, 
While  each  one  gazed  on  his  manly  form, 

As  he  cried  in  accents  light : 

"I  toast  not  the  maid  of  the  curling  hair, 

Or  eyes  of  brown  or  blue, 
Or  knights  of  old  who  loved  to  dare, 

For  the  sake  of  a  maiden  true. 

"I  drink  to  the  men  of  that  dauntless  band, 

Who  fought  in  'Ninety-eight,' 
To  free  their  homes  and  native  land 

From  the  tyrant  England's  hate. 

"I  drink  to  the  men  who  faced  the  foe 

On  Ednavady's  slope, 
To  Lord  Edward  and  the  bold  Monroe, 

Wolfe  Tone  and  the  gallant  Hope. 


"Then  fill  your  glasses  here  tonight, 
And  drink  to  our  deathless  brave, 

Who  fought  for  right  against  England's  might 
Their  motherland  to  save. 


"Drink  to  the  men  who  faced  the  foe. 

On  scaffold  high,  and  field, 
McCracken,  Orr,  and  the  brave  Shawn  Roe, 

And  the  gallant  brothers  Shield." 

And  they  drank  the  toast  in  their  loyal  pride 
'Neath  the  cabin's  swinging  light, 

As  the  moonbeams  danced  on  the  waters  wide, 
In  the  calm  of  that  Autumn  night. 

They  drank  to  the  men  of  that  fearless  band, 

That  fought  in  the  long  ago. 
They  toasted  success  to  the  dear  old  land, 

And  death  to  the  English  foe. 

Grim  were  the  looks  these  exiles  wore, 

Who  were  wont  to  be  so  gay, 
And  deep  and  stern  were  the  vows  they  swore 

As  their  glasses  clinked  that  day. 

Ah!  history  yet  will  tell  a  tale, 

That  will  sound  from  shore  to  shore. 

How  these  Irish  fought  for  "Granuaille," 
And  the  land  of  the  sturdy  Boer. 


THE   DAISY. 

Let  poets  praise  the  lily  fair, 
That  reigns  in  garden  plot, 
And  sing  of  dainty  maiden's-hair, 

And  blue  forget-me-not; 
And  roses  blushing  sweet  and  free, 

Where  briery  walks  are  mazy, 
They  can  have  them  all,  but  give  to  me 
The  humble  Irish  daisy. 

The  daisy,  oh  the  daisy, 
The  good  old-fashioned  daisy, 
The  sweetest  flower  in  Nature's  bower, 
The  unassuming  daisy. 

When  wintry  winds  are  blowing  cold, 

O'er  woodlands  bleak  and  bare, 
That  dainty  flower  with  heart  of  gold, 

Is  springing  here  and  there. 
On  sheltered  lawn,  on  hill  and  lea, 
When  clouds  are  gray  and  hazy, 
It  shyly,  sweetly  nods  at  me, 
The  courteous  little  daisy. 

The  daisy,  oh  the  daisy, 
The  shy  and  lowly  daisy, 
With  slender  form  it  breasts  the  storm — 
God  save  the  Irish  daisy ! 

When  gentle  Spring  steals  o'er  the  land, 

In  emerald  garments   dressed, 
And  scatters  with  a  lavish  hand, 

Sweet  petals  from  her  breast, 
In  showers  they  fall  with  silent  glee, 

Until  the  fields  are  mazy, 
'Tis  then  I  praise  most  fervently 
The  modest  star-eyed  daisy, 
The  daisy,  oh  the  daisy, 
The  crimson-tinted  daisy, 
When  hills  are  green  the  fairest  seen 
Is  Ireland's  glorious  daisy! 


MY  IRISH  GIRL. 

Sparkling  eyes  of  deepest  blue, 
Eyes  of  love's  own  violet  hue, 
Cheeks  like  roses  all  aglow, 
Lips  like  Cupid's  arched  bow. 
And  teeth  as  white  as  purest  pearl, 
O !  a  maiden  fair  is  my  Irish  girl. 

Waving  tresses  of  raven  sheen, 

A  halo  fit  for  a  Celtic  queen, 

Form  of  slender,  matchless  grace, 

A  bashful  look  on  her  modest  face, 

And  a  voice  that  makes  my  bosom  whirl — 

O !  a  beauty  rare  is  my  Irish  girl. 

At  eve  when  daisies  nod  and  sleep, 
And  winds  are  pillowed  on  the  deep, 
I  take  my  blackthorn  stick  and  roam, 
Across  the  fields  to  her  father's  home, 
And  there  at  the  fire  beside  my  pearl, 
I  sit  and  woo  my  Irish  girl. 

On  Sunday  morn  when  Mass  is  o'er, 
I  meet  my  love  at  the  chapel  door, 
Then  down  the  boreen  hand  in  hand, 
We  wander  to  sweet  Shannon's  strand, 
Where  the  breezes  kiss  each  glossy  curl, 
On  the  fair  young  brow  of  my  Irish  girl. 

To  the  Margamore*  the  grandest  seen, 
Comes  my  colleen  dhas  in  her  robe  of  green ; 
There  every  head  is  turned  to  greet, 
My  Kathleen  as  we  walk  the  street, 
Och !  many  a  bouchal's  heart  would  whirl 
To  walk  beside  my  Irish  girl. 

I  would  not  give  my  happy  lot, 

My  garden  gay  and  snow-white  cot, 

My  painted  yawl  on  Mono's  shore, 

And  my  sweetheart  true  for  gold  galore. 

Nor  change  for  the  wealth  of  the  richest  earl, 

The  pure  sweet  love  of  my  Irish  girl. 


*Big  Market. 


ISLAND  MORE. 

The  day  has  fled  and  all  is  still 
On  Hanna's  flowering  vale  and  hill, 
The  gentle  robin  with  glowing  breast 
And  russet  wing  has  gone  to  rest, 
The  roses  decked  in  dewy  gems, 
Are  drooping  on  their  slender  stems, 
And  slumber  reigns  along  thy  shore, 
And  in  thy  bowers  loved  Island  More. 

Across  the  shadows  of  the  night 
Behold  yon  glorious  orb  of  light 
That  floods  with  clear  and  tranquil  ray, 
The  shimmering  waters  of  the  bay. 
Beyond  those  undulating  beams, 
Like  landscapes  limned  in  fairy  dreams, 
I  see  the  hills  on  Myra's  shore, 
And  the  silver  sands  on  Island  More. 


Hark  to  the  bugle's  thrilling  notes ! 
How  soft  and  sweet  the  music  floats 
Upon  the  primrose-scented  air, 
Like  vestal  virgin's  song  of  prayer, 
Now  swelling  o'er  the  woodlands  green, 
Now  trembling  o'er  each  changing  scene, 
Till  echoes  ring  from  shore  to  shore, 
And  softly  die  on  Island  More. 


Ah!  I  must  leave  thee,  lovely  isle, 
Where  simple  mirth  and  peace  beguile — 
The   ruddy  hearth,  the   summer  bowers 
Arrayed  in  nature's  sweetest  flowers — 
To  sail  the  ocean's  lonely  path, 
And  brave  the  storm's  death-dealing  wrath, 
Far,  far  from  thee,  my  native  shore, 
Far,   far  away  from  Island  More. 


Tis  better  now  to  part  from  thee, 
While  night  enfolds  thy  lonely  sea, 
As  dear  to  me  thy  brooding  gloom, 
As  the  fragrance  of  thy  flowers  in  bloom, 
To  the  starry  splendors  of  the  night 
Flooding  thy  hills  with  heavenly  light, 
To  vale  and  tower  and  winding  shore, 
My  heart's  farewell,  loved  Island  More. 


Through  all  the  changes  of  the  years, 
In  all  my  joys,  in  all  my  tears, 
I'll  ne'er  forget  thee,  sunny  home, 
Where'er  my  wandering  feet  may  roam, 
And  Memory  at  evening  tide 
Shall  wing  her  flight  o'er  oceans  wide 
To  treasured  scenes  along  thy  shore 
Oh!  lonely,  lovely  Island  More." 


MY   LITTLE   IRISH   MARY. 

My  Mary  she  is  young  and  fair, 
No  artful  charms  can  bind  her, 

Unfettered  flows  her  raven  hair 
On  every  breeze  behind  her. 

From  morn  till  night  she  sweetly  sings 
Like  nymph  or  woodland  fairy, 

Bright  joy  to  every  heart  she  brings, 
My  little  Irish  Mary. 

My  Mary's  eyes  are  full  of  love, 

That  love  is  'round  me  twining, 
Her  heart's  as  gentle  as  a  dove, 

And  pure  as  diamonds  shining. 
Her  cheeks  would  shame  the  blushing  rose, 

Her  form  is  light  and  airy, 
With  love  my  heart  for  her  o'erflows, 

My  little  Irish  Mary. 

I  crave  not  wealth  nor  lordly  home, 

I  seek  no  earthly  treasure. 
From  her  I  never  wish  to  roam, 

She  is  my  sweetest  pleasure. 
Let  others  sigh  for  a  prouder  lot, 

And  scenes  that  ever  vary, 
Give  me  my  humble  mountain  cot 

And  my  little  Irish  Mary." 


SING  ME  A  SONG. 

Sing  me  a  song  of  the  dear  old  land, 

The  land  I  can  ne'er  forget, 
That  sparkling  shines  like  a  jewel  grand, 

On  the  brow  of  ocean  set. 
Sing  of  the  vales  and  winding  streams, 

I  knew  in  childhood's  hours. 
That  come  to  me  in  pleasant  dreams, 
Like  visions  of  Eden's  bowers. 

Oh!  sing  of  the  lark    and    the    robin's 

notes, 

Of  the  goldfinch  and  the  thrush ; 
And  the  linnet's  thrilling  song  that  floats 
'Midst  the  leaves  of  the  holly  bush. 

Sing  me  a  song  of  the  men  of  old, 
Kings  Cormac  and  Brian  Boru, 
And  Owen  O'Neill  with  heart  of  gold, 

And  O'Donnell  stanch  and  true, 
Sing  of  valor  bright  on  Boyne's  red  banks, 

And  my  tears  like  rain  shall  fall, 
For  the  gallant  men  who  fell  in  ranks 
At  holy  Ireland's  call. 
Oh  sing  of  the  men  of  that  brave  old  land, 

Where  Shannon's  waters  flow, 

Of  Cathal  of  the  red,  right  hand, 

On  the  plains  of  fair  Mayo. 

Sing  me  a  song  of  days  gone  by, 

When  every  balmy  air, 
Sounded  the  battle's  furious  cry, 

And  the  leaders'  fierce   fanfare. 
Tell  of  the  ruined  cloisters  gray. 

From  Glendalough  to  Struel, 
Of  the  stricken  souls  that  came  to  pray 
At  Molua's  sacred  pool. 

Oh  sing  of  the  saints  of  our  holy  isle, 

Of  Patrick,  and  Columkille, 
And  Brigid  pure,  with  her  gracious  smile, 
And  Finian's  cloister-hill. 


Sing  me  a  song  of  my  boyhood's  home, 

Near  the  grove  of  spreading  trees, 
Where  the  hawthorn  blossoms  white  as  foam 

Perfumed  each  passing  breeze. 
Chant  of  the  churchyard's  lonely  shade, 

At  the  end  of  the  old  boreen, 
Where  my  boyhood  friends  in  peace  are  laid, 
'Neath  the  tall  grass  waving  green. 

Yes,  sing  of  that  spot  where  my  loved 

ones  sleep, 

In  the  churchyard's  kindly  bed, 
Where  the  lilacs  bloom,  and  the  willows 

weep, 
And  the  night  winds  sigh  o'erhead. 

Sing  me  a  song  of  that  sweet  old  land, 

My  land  I  can  ne'er  forget, 
That  shimmering  shines  like  an  emerald  grand, 

In  the  ocean's  coronet. 
Sing  of  the  glens  and  mountain  streams, 

And  the  meadows  gay  with  flowers, 
That  only  come  to  me  now  in  dreams, 
Like  vistas  of  Heavenly  bowers. 
Yea,  sing  me  these  songs  and  my  heart 

shall  smile 

And  the  Exile's  sobs  shall  cease, 
And    my    soul    shall    speed  to  my  own 

Green  Isle 
With  the  thrill  of  a  tender  peace. 


KATIE    ALANNA. 

Och  Katie  Alanna,  dear  Katie  machree, 
Me  heart  is  on  fire,  an'  tis  burnin'  for  thee, 
Shure  at  mornin',  at  noon,  an'  all  the  long 

night, 
That  flame  in  me  bosom  burns  tindher  an' 

bright. 

From  the  time,  Katie  darlin',  we  met  on  the 

green, 

No  aise  nor  contintmint  at  all  have  I  seen. 
Whereivir  I  wandher  or  whativir  I  do, 
The  furst  thing  I  know  I  am  thinkin'  of  you. 

Whenivir  I  look  at  the  beautiful  skies 

They  don't  seem  half  as  bright  as  the  blue  of 

your  eyes. 

Alanna,  there  nivir  were  stars  shinin'  bright, 
But  are  rush-lights  compared  wid  those  same 

eyes  tonight. 

Whenivir  I  look  at  the  rose  blushin'  red 
So  nate  an'  complate  wid  the  dews  on  its 

head, 

'Tis  of  your  own  beautiful  blushes  it  speaks 
That  cover  the  satiny  white  of  your  cheeks. 

Och,  Katie  avillish,  there  nivir  was  wine 
As  rosy  or  sweet  as  those  ripe  lips  of  thine, 
An'  there  couldn't  be  rapture  or  joy  to  com 
pare 

Wid  the  thrill  I  would  feel  if  me  own  lips 
were  there. 


The  snow  fallin'  white  on  Mama's  green  hill, 
Or  the  crystal-clear  brooks  that  glide  down  to 

Lough  Gill, 

Are  nivir  as  gintle  or  guileless,  I'm  shure, 
As  the  heart  of  me  own  darlin'  colleen  so  pure. 

Och,  Katie  ochora,  my  sweet  gra  machree, 
Jist  whispher  the  day  an'  tis  happy  I'll  be. 
Shure,  the  illigant  angels  in  heaven  so  fair 
Will  go  dancin'  wid  joy  whin  to  church  we 
repair. 

I'll  spake  to  the  priest  tomorrow  at  noon, 
For  good  deeds,  can  nivir  be    finished    too 

soon, 

I'll  tell  him  my  Katie  acushla  machree 
Has  promised  her  Barney  his  own  bride  to  be. 

Wid  you  for  me  jewel,    me   sweet   plighted 

wife, 

I'll  laugh  at  the  world  an'  its  trouble  an'  strife. 
And  the  bright  hours  will  fly  like  white  birds 

o'er  the  tide, 
Wid  me  own  dearest  Katie  machree  by  me 

side. 


EVENING   IN   FRUITVALE. 

How  calm,  how  beautiful  the  landscape  seems ! 
The  weary  wind  scarce  stirs  the  trembling 

bough; 

On  droning  wing  like  music  sweet  of  streams, 
The  honey-laden  bee  returns ;  and  now, 
From  tall  Leona's  heights  the  mists  are  falling 
Like  filmy  veil  around  some  blushing  bride. 
Softly  the  fluting  meadow-larks  are  calling — 
Far  to  the  west  I  see  Balboa's  tide. 
Now,  one  by  one,  the  jewelled  stars  peep  out 
From  fields  of  blue  through  trailing  clouds  of 

gray; 

I  hear  sweet  laughter  and  the  distant  shout 
Of  happy  children  at  their  blithesome  play. 
The  tranquil  night  her  sable  robe  hath  spread, 
Peace  rests  upon  the  Berkeley  hills — the  clam 
orous  day  is  dead. 


MUSIC. 

Music  hath  a  wondrous  power, 
To  soothe  the  human  breast, 

It  hath  a  charm  in  every  hour, 
To  lull  the  soul  to  rest. 

A  note  to  urge  the  soldier  brave, 
Where  clashing  bayonets  meet, 

A  tender  voice  on  land  or  wave, 
To  lure  the  dancers'  feet. 

In  Erin's  isle  across  the  main, 
What  martial  hopes  unfold, 

Whene'er  we  hear  that  glorious  strain, 
"Hurrah  for  the  Men  of  Old!" 

Where  is  the  Celtic  heart,  oh  where, 
That  does  not  bound  with  joy? 

At  sound  of  "Fill  the  Bumper  Fair," 
Or  the  thrilling  "Minstrel  Boy?" 

In  lordly  hall  and  lowly  cot, 

Music  hath  its  sway, 
It  soothes  the  peasant's  cheerless  lot, 

And  drives  all  Cares  away. 

It  makes  the  maiden's  bosom  start, 

With  love's  delirious  thrill, 
Ah,  music  is  a  wondrous  art 

Life's  weary  griefs  to  still. 


THE  STAR   OF  FAITH. 

;<Now  answer  this  riddle,"  a  father  cried 

To  his  only  boy  one  day, 
As  to  a.  field  together  they  hied, 
To  rake  the  new  mown  hay. 

"There  is  a  star,  a  twinkling  star, 

The  brightest  in  the  skies, 
Whose  silvery  rays  shine  out  afar 
Though  murky  clouds  arise. 

"It  guides  us  through  the  darksome  night, 

And  all  the  weary  day, 
We  toil  beneath  its  cheering  light, 
We  see  it  when  we  pray. 

"When  morning  wakes  across  the  wave, 

We  hail  its  mellow  beams. 
Its  lustre  gilds  each  loved  one's  grave, 
It  glimmers  in  our  dreams. 


"We  see  it  in  the  rosy  time, 

Of  childhood's  artless  hours, 
But  best  of  all  in  manhood's  prime, 
W'hen  sorrow  strews  her  flowers. 


"When  faded  cheeks  and  wrinkles  mar, 

And  age  the  shoulders  bow, 
The  cheerful  glint  of  that  fair  Star, 
Clears  many  an  anxious  brow. 


"When  Persecution's  bitter  pain 

Oppress  the  faithful  few, 
Thru  all  the  threatening  clouds  again 
We  see  that  Star  anew. 


"It  lights  the  dark  of  the  pagans'  land. 

Where  many  a  martyr  trod ; 
And  ever  it  leads  the  chosen  Band 
Who  walk  the  ways  of  God. 


'Come  now,"  he  cried  with  bended  head, 

"Name  me  this  starry  wraith." 
And  the  boy  looked  up  and  softly  said : 
"It  is  the  Star  of  Faith." 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-40m-7,'56(C790s4)444 


LIBRARY 

^^,    n  i  T  TTTTtUKT  \ 


PS 


Quinn  - 


3533  Songs  of  Innis- 
QUls  fail   


NOV  1  6  1956 


PS 
3S33 


